


Beyond the Balcony

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Beaches, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Rumbelle Christmas in July, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rum is a reluctant beach-goer preparing for his son’s wedding. Belle is a librarian turned taffy maker with a love of the sun. Their first few hours together aren’t what either expects, but don’t they say something about how ‘opposites attract’?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the absolutely amazing Kay for RCIJ. Original prompt was "lazy summer days." I really hope you enjoy this! <3

Rumford Gold despised the heat.

 

He’d spent his life in the heart of Glasgow, where the winters were cool and overcast, the springs temperate and overcast, and the summers warm and overcast—with the occasional sunny day thrown into the mix. He’d grown accustomed to frequent rain and infrequent changes. So stepping out into the oppressive heat of North Carolina?

 

“I’m already sweating,” he muttered.

 

The cabbie shot Rum a surprised look, grinning as he pulled bags from the trunk.

 

“You expectin’ somthin’ else?” he asked, slurring his words together. “Course its hot ‘ere!”

 

Rum didn’t know if that was his normal speech or if the man was intoxicated, and frankly he didn’t care. The boy had gotten him here without incident and now he could be on his way. Rum shoved a wad of bills at him to indicate just that.

 

“I expected professionalism,” he sniffed and ignored the kid’s exaggerated mockery. Boy took the bills, left Rum’s last bag with a pat, and tore off with the sound of wheels on sea-shell gravel.

 

Watching him go, Rum became more and more convinced that he _was_ drunk off his ass, just like everyone else here. The residents of the Outer Banks were either wasted college frats—piled up twenty a house three streets down—or elderly couples on vacation, sipping cocktails and never bothering to enter the water. Rum felt like gnashing his teeth because he didn’t belong to either group. He was a middle-aged man in a suit, standing outside a beach house with couture luggage and a designer scowl. He so obviously didn’t belong that Rum took a peek over each shoulder, worried that someone was out there, watching and judging him. The street was empty though and Rum hurried inside before that could change.

 

He nearly wept the second he crossed the threshold: cold, conditioned air slapping him in the face. Rum took a moment to just breathe... then set about his work with the proficiency of a well-oiled machine. He took one last look to make sure he was alone, then slipped off his shoes, placing them perfectly aligned on the “Beach! Lose Your Shoes!” welcome mat— fitting. The suitcases were lined up too as Rum undid his cufflinks and slipped off his jacket, carefully rolling each sleeve. Barefoot and bare-armed he took a case in each hand and padded through the entranceway, past the kitchen, up the stairs.

 

Rum didn’t notice the cute blue upholstery theme, or the sea-life decorative details, or even the gorgeous, beach-front view. It was enough trouble getting his bags upstairs with his bad knee. He headed straight to what he presumed was the guest bedroom and began carefully putting away his clothes. This consisted of numerous suits in black and grey, a tux for the wedding...and a single polo shirt with slacks because Neal had insisted that he “dress down” when they went out. Rum hadn’t bothered to buy a bathing suit. He wouldn’t need one.

 

Cufflinks in the woman’s jewelry box, shoes paired beneath each suit in the closet. Rum set out his toiletries and the one book he’d bothered to bring: _The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference_ by Malcolm Gladwell. Presumably it was a text that could give him more insight into running his antique business, though frankly Rum wasn’t holding his breath.

 

Socks and underwear went quickly into a drawer—no reason to stare at that too long—and finally his briefcase filled with work and notes was placed directly beside his bed. The two bags still downstairs contained odd and ends for the wedding, things that Neal had asked him to bring, and Rum was more than happy to supply them. Expense was no issue, of course. Not when it came to his boy.

 

With nothing else to do Rum sat down on the coin-tight bed, awkwardly running his hands over the quilt. He finally took in the decor. It was a far cry from his knick-knack packed shop back home, that was for sure, and Rum felt a sudden, unexpected desire for the shadows: a familiar dark and chilly place.

 

“Get ahold of yourself,” he growled. “You’re no goddamn vampire.”

 

Not that many would agree. With a sigh Rum hoisted himself to his feet, deciding that at the very least he should eat something after the flight. He meandered back down to the kitchen where he found nothing but old teabags left by the owners, though they would do. He wasn’t feeling confident enough to fiddle with their coffee machine (likely to break the thing, really) so Rum settled for boiling water in a pot when a kettle didn’t present itself. He leaned over the pan as steam wafted up in his face, telling himself that it was good conditioning for getting used to this weather.

 

Rum cleaned a mug, poured the water, and let the bag steep too long. There was no sugar or honey so he took it as it was, choking down the chamomile without enthusiasm. With nothing else to do Rum headed straight for the balcony.

 

If the air conditioning was a welcome slap to the face, this endless heat was a smothering blanket, forcing Rum to abandon his hot drink before he’d even taken three sips. Admittedly it was slightly more bearable without shoes or long sleeves, but not by much. It was only when an ocean breeze picked up and ruffled his hair that Rum sighed. It helped him feel slightly more like himself.

 

He padded to the railing, briefly noting that there was an identical balcony to his right, currently deserted. Good. He didn’t need nosy neighbors honing in on his time. This moment was for him, to gather his thoughts and enjoy whatever breeze he was able to get.

 

Rum felt his shoulders relaxing just a bit. The ocean did make for a magnificent view.

 

“Can’t fault you for choosing beachfront, son,” Rum said. “I only hope that woman of yours appreciates it.”

 

She would. Emma was no Milah.

 

So this was it then. His ‘home’ for the next two weeks. Rum was actually getting close to enjoying himself, despite it all, and his spirits might have improved exponentially if not for one little thing.

 

The was a figure suddenly waving at him from the other balcony.

 

“Hey, there!”


	2. Chapter 2

Belle French _adored_ the heat.

 

She’d rolled the windows of the cab down the moment she got in, earning a laugh from the young guy up front. They’d chatted a bit, Belle telling him about her big move, him, Marty, inviting her to the party his bud Will was throwing that night. Belle politely declined and turned her attention towards sticking her head out the window like a dog. She didn’t care how tangled her hair was getting, or the sweat that started pouring down her neck... Belle was here to stay and she let out a whoop of pure joy at the prospect. She was delighted to hear someone random whoop back.

 

“Better keep your head in,” her driver yelled over the wind. “Don’t want you losing it!”

 

Belle popped back in with a grin. There was sand everywhere, tiny shops, big crowds, and she could smell the ocean on every breeze. Moving here was certainly the best decision she’d ever made.

 

A honk startled Belle from her thoughts. She looked out the passenger window just in time to see another cab passing theirs, the driver’s window rolled down and a thumb thrown out into the heat. He looked like he was trying to hitchhike, but Belle’s driver did the same, letting out a loud “Ayyyy!” as the other guy shouted something unintelligible. Then he was gone, the two cabs passing like modern ships in the night and Belle laughed aloud that this was what her literary life had become.

 

“That’s Will,” Marty said, as if that explained everything. It sort of did.

 

Belle shook her head. “Seems great.”

 

“He is, he is.”

 

It was only another minute more before Marty got all professional, nodding ahead of them.

 

“This the right place, friend?”

 

Back out the window. Belle nodded when she spotted the green house with the long, winding driveway. Her driver couldn’t see her, but he turned in regardless, giving the side of his cab a fond pat. Belle was out before they’d even stopped, dragging three of her bags with her.

 

“Let me get that, c’mon,” Marty laughed, moving to take the load from her hands.

 

Belle let him. While he unloaded the trunk she stared in wonder around her, feeling like a kid in the proverbial candy story. The houses here were huge, easily four times the size she’d lived in back home, and they looked clean as a whistle, if the outsides were anything to judge by. There was laughter and dogs’ barks sounding in the distance. The smell of salt. Still turning, Belle noted that everything around her was pastel and she took mental notes, hoping to recreate the colors in her work.

 

“There ya go,” Marty announced, startling her. “Want me to take these in for ya?” The last was said with a mischievous grin.

 

“No thank you.” Belle might be open, but even she wouldn’t do anything so foolish as inviting a strange man inside. Not that she thought Marty hurt her... he’d just push, which in its way _was_ a kind of hurt. Besides, he couldn’t be that far out of college—if that—and Belle wasn’t interested in playing babysitter.

 

She’d always been attracted to the older men anyway.

 

“I can take if from here, really, you’ve been very kind.” Belle gave him as large a tip as she was able and in turn Marty slipped her a scrap with Will’s address on it. He explained, in extraneous detail, that if she came late they’d all just be down at the beach.

 

“You should come. Won’t regret it,” he said and finally left, leaving Belle with a large load and the distinct feeling that she would. Still, she waved as he drove away.

 

“Everyone’s so nice here,” she said.

 

It would take Belle a long while to get all the bags inside. It was far too much for a two-week vacation, but that was sort of the point. The rest of her stuff would be arriving a few days from now in a beat up U-Haul, just as soon as she was done here. Not that Belle intended to rush anything. The two weeks were everything. She intended to start her _life_ in these next two weeks.

 

“Let’s begin.”

 

The air conditioning was far too high—who wanted summer to feel like winter? First thing Belle did was skip to the thermostat and crank it down, leaving just enough for the inside of the house to feel marginally different from the outside. She then threw herself upon three of the bags in the entryway, unsure of what was where, just stuffing things into her arms that seemed like they might be useful: water bottle, photograph, bathing suit (duh), sunglasses, a melted Twix bar (where had that come from?), and of course a small handful of all the summer books she’d brought. None of them were the one she’d been reading on the plane, but that was fine. She didn’t mind setting things out of order.

 

Within minutes Belle had piles of this and that all strewn across the floor, and frankly by then she was growing bored. New life, new possibilities... the last thing Belle wanted was to fall back into her old, formulaic habits. Life should be more than routines and Dewy decimal systems... or unpacking. So she dumped her ‘Important’ load on the living room table where she’d see it and set off exploring.

 

The house was the embodiment of every beach-front she’d ever drooled over online, which wasn’t surprising given the expense. High tech kitchen and a gorgeous dining room, living area, powder room, a small in-house theater downstairs that left Belle cackling. The upstairs wasn’t much of anything besides bedrooms, but Belle threw herself onto the feather mattress with abandon. Toeing off her shoes she stared up at the fan and let out a happy sigh.

 

“I could get used to this,” Belle whispered.

 

A year from now, even two weeks... it wasn’t for Belle to focus on. It was time for _now_ and she’d be damned if she’d missed out on a second of it.

 

She could have easily taken a nap, but in the interest of exploration Belle hoisted herself to her feet, strolling to the one part of the house she hadn’t seen yet.

 

The balcony.

 

The screen door slid aside soundlessly. Sea air immediately ruffled Belle’s skirt. She’d seen it of course, online, but nothing compared to the real view. In seconds she was at the railing, leaning far enough to see the pool down below. It was everything and more she could have imagined. Even better, Belle had made sure to pick out a house with close neighbors, noting that whoever had the house to her left would nearly be sitting beside her out here. She’d hoped to make a last one acquaintance before the settled down and—

 

Belle froze. A grin broke out, blinding.

 

“Hey, there!”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Rum stared. An hour into this place and already he was being accosted.

 

There was a woman across the way, on the other balcony, waving at him like they were friends. That was notable in and of itself, but Rum also had to admit to a certain... charm, at least appearance wise. The woman had a natural beauty about her, though a fashion sense that left him somewhat befuddled: short yellow skirt, a white shirt that read “I like big books and I cannot lie” (congratulations?), and purple high heels that seemed rather impractical for the beach. Her long hair was pulled back and a single tattoo of a book-stack snaked the length of her arm, the one still raised in greeting. Rum was a bit too far to see the details though.

 

Tentatively, he raised his hand back.

 

“I’m Belle,” she began, smiling, and Rum’s mind shut down. No.

 

He turned on his heel and went inside.

 

Rude, yes, but he wasn’t here to make friends. Or neighbors. What kind of woman her age could afford that place anyhow? No one decent he was sure. Either that, or she was someone’s wife, girlfriend, the like. Rum could just imagine them roping him into some well meaning dinner—or heaven forbid, a _barbecue_ —and the stilted conversation that would follow, their slow realization that, no, he wasn’t the sophisticated company that his suits and watch implied. Hell, Rum didn’t need to imagine. He’d been through it enough to draw from facts.

 

With a sigh Rum settled himself at the kitchen countertop, unsure of what to do now. There was air conditioning—he rolled down his sleeves. A clock—he counted the ticks. Rum was very close to finding a place to try and read when his phone buzzed, startling him.

 

“Guess who,” a voice said, grin in the tone. Despite himself, Rum rolled his eyes.

 

“There are only three options when this phone rings, Neal,” he drawled. “You, Emma on your behalf, or a disgruntled customer.”

 

“Could have been a customer.”

 

“Their caller ID doesn’t normally say ‘The Man.’”

 

Neal cackled, just like Rum knew he would. Damn kid had gotten that from a movie or some such at the tender age of four. One of the first phrases he’d ever spoken without slurring the words, which was pretty much the only reason Rum let him say it so often. Almost thirty years later and it was still his favorite thing. Rum shook his head.

 

“Where are you?” he asked. There were traffic sounds in the background, the aggressive honk of horns.

 

“Almost there. Hold on, here, have Emma while I merge—”

 

“Rum,” she said, nearly warmly. They’d bumped heads at the start, but Rum had developed a deep, if somewhat grudging respect for Emma over the years. Quick witted and almost as blunt as he was, she was one of a handful of people Rum could speak with easily. He’d never have handed his son off to her otherwise.

 

“—in ten minutes or so. Got an earlier start than we were expecting because _someone_ had the patience level of a toddler.”

 

Rum heard the wet smack of Neal kissing her cheek. He barely restrained himself from an admonishment: _eyes on the goddamn road_.

 

“Can I help it if I’m impatient to marry you?”

 

“Impatient to get to the beach, more like.”

 

“... that too.”

 

A smack, thankfully playful, and Rum sighed. “Emma, may I have my son again please?”

 

“Sure thing.” The phone was passed and Neal immediately set into an excited explanation about all they would do: partying, tourist attractions, shopping, swimming, and of course the wedding itself. It was less than a week away, a quick affair so that the rest of this vacation could be spent in pure, marital bliss. As happy as Rum was for his son, a part of him envied him too.

 

“Neal,” he interrupted. “Just... the house is paid for, son. If you and Emma want the privacy I’m more than happy to—”

 

“What? Ditch the vacation you paid for? C’mon, Papa. You haven’t left that shop since I was born.”

 

Rum closed his eyes. “Not many people would want their father living with them on their _honeymoon_.”

 

“Well I’m not most people, and neither is Emma.” (“Damn straight.”) “You know how important family is to us, Papa. We want you here for this.”

 

What went unsaid was that Neal only had Rum to choose from when it came to family. Emma had a sickeningly lovely mom and dad living just a short walk from here (who Rum was carefully avoiding), while Neal’s ‘happy family’ consisted of a marriage torn about by drink and disloyalty, a crotchety father, and a mother nearly two decades in her grave. An awful part of Rum was glad that Milah wasn’t here to see this. She’d no doubt ruin their moment more than Rum ever could.

 

It was oddly reassuring...

 

“I understand. I’ll just stay out of your way.” Rum rubbed the bridge of his nose, plowing on before Neal could protest. “Look. I brought the silverware and such that you asked for, as well as the... other thing.”

 

Silence on Neal’s end, until Rum got a soft, “Thanks, Papa.” It made packing that awful relic quite worth it.

 

Neal cleared his throat. “Okay. Uh, Emma and I are actually going to check out the town a bit before we unpack. Maybe do some shopping. Do you want anything?”

 

“No thank you.” If Rum wanted to waste his money on tourist trinkets he could do it on his own time. “You two have fun.”

 

“Will do. We’ll see you for dinner?”

 

“Mm.”

 

Rum heard a quick “Bye” from Emma before Neal hung up. He set his phone aside and rested his head in his hands, resigned to just sitting here until 6:00 or so rolled around.

 

One a whim Rum stood and made his way to the balcony. He peaked out the window, but the woman was already gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Belle watched as the man waved at her—more like a spasm of fingers—before scurrying back inside quick as he could.

 

“Huh,” she said. “Must be busy.”

 

Except he hadn’t felt busy, odd as that sounded. Men with too much to do didn’t lean longingly over railings, head tipped to the breeze like they were dying of heat. Belle wondered why he hadn’t thrown shorts and a t-shirt on like the rest of the population. Maybe some sort of meeting with that suit? Except he’d been barefoot, and his sleeves were a mess—looked like he’s never bothered to roll them like that before in his life.

 

Suddenly Belle grinned. “I’ve been reading too much Doyle,” she said, and turned her attention back to the ocean.

 

This, this right here, was exactly what Belle needed. Ruby had suggested meditation once, ages ago, which was sort of hilarious given her own, wild lifestyle. But though Belle had loved the idea she just couldn’t seem to put it into practice. She could sit for hours reading a book of any genre, but trying to ‘clear her mind’ as it was just made her think about everything else that needed doing, or hell, all the books she could be reading instead. A few communal lessons and self-help guides and Belle had given it up.

 

But this? The waves pulling in and out, their sound, their smell? Belle lapsed into that peaceful state more easily than she ever had before. She took her time.

 

It was a child’s playful shriek that pulled Belle out of it. She shook her head, smiling out over the balcony. She could see a gorgeous pool below. Sort of tempting to jump straight into it.

 

“And break your fool neck,” she muttered. “This isn’t one of your stories, Belle.”

 

Instead of taking a dive off the balcony Belle skipped back inside, still far too energetic to keep still. She had nowhere to be and no one to meet, but the need to explore wasn’t hindered by anything like loneliness. Belle grabbed her purse and rifled through two bags before finding her sunglasses. Then she headed out.

 

She knew exactly where she was going, though Belle wasn’t entirely sure of the way. The uncertainty made it more fun though. Heading out the back Belle admired it all: the sandy dunes growing strange plants, rickety wooden fences, even the outdoor shower that was rusting in several places. To the right was a path leading directly to the beach, ahead more houses, and to her left the road that would take Belle to the boardwalk. She turned left, smile growing wider with every step.

 

Despite her lack of directions, Belle spotted the shop only halfway down the pier. That was the point of her house, wasn’t it? Somewhere nice and close? She hadn’t realized _how_ close though and Belle set off running, her heels clicking a fierce staccato on the boardwalk planks.

 

People got out of her way, couples unlinking hands to let her through and kids swerving as they ran the other way. Belle skid to a halt outside a tiny shop with a turquoise sign: _Taffy Tomes_. The grin Belle sent at it was blinding.

 

“I’m afraid they’re not open yet.”

 

Belle jumped, realizing that the woman was talking to her. She stood in the doorway of the shop right next door, an equally tiny place called _Charming Gallery_. Belle’s eyes roamed over the swinging sign, admiring the flowery, gold script in particular.

 

“My husband’s idea,” the woman said, somewhat dryly. “‘Charming’ is our last name. Pretty sure some ancestor just made that up somewhere down the line, but when we opened up, well, ‘what better name?’ he said.” She spread her arms and Belle couldn’t help but notice how welcoming she looked. She was on the stockier side, with a tailored summer dress and very short-cropped black hair—basically all the style of a woman in power without the intimidation. Belle could more easily imagine her on the pages of a magazine... though given the beauty of the paintings she could see in the front window, Belle reassessed and determined that this was exactly where the woman should be.

 

“I’m Belle,” she said, stepping forward. He new friend met her halfway with enthusiasm.

 

“Mary Margaret,” she said. “Husband sometimes calls me ‘M&M’ if you want a silly nickname to use.” Mary Margret grinned at Belle’s laughed. “He’s David by the way, and we have a daughter named Emma. She should actually be arriving any time now...”

 

“I’m happy for you,” Belle said. She meant it too. “It’s just me here, I’m afraid. Plenty of friends back home, but...”

 

“And home is where? Australia?”

 

Good to know she hadn’t entirely lost the accent. Belle nodded. “Technically, though I haven’t been back in years. I’ve been in DC getting my degree in library science, doing some work there... couldn’t stand the city though. Had to get back to the beach, just not Australia’s beaches.”

 

“Family?” she asked softly and Belle hardly cared that this was too personal for a first conversation. She nodded again.

 

“Yeah. Parents died there. I’ll probably go back someday, but for now...”

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

“Thank you, really.”

 

“Of course.”

 

There was a moment of silence, one of those that could have turned into something awkward and stilted, the sort of universal indicator that now was the time to leave. They’d met, exchanged pleasantries... what else was there to do? Social norms dictated that you didn’t just become friends with people you met on the street—or the boardwalk—no matter how much you might like them thus far.

 

Lucky for Belle, she’d never been one for ‘conventional’ or ‘normal.’ Even better, she had another, more permanent excuse up her sleeve.

 

Mary Margaret smoothed her dress, clearly thinking it was time to move on. “I’m sorry the taffy store isn’t open. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to start up sometime next week.”

 

“Sooner than that actually,” Belle said. “I hope to have the place up and running in the next few days.”

 

Mary Margaret blinked. “You...?”

 

Belle laughed, holding out her hand again. “No deception intended... but hi. I’m your new neighbor.”


	5. Chapter 5

Much as he loved his soon-to-be wife, Neal really needed to get out of that car.

 

The drive had been a long one, broken up only by Emma’s shit music and the call to his papa. Six hours in and Neal was getting a pretty massive cramp in his left leg, to say nothing of the stiffness in his lower back. As if by magic (or more likely her ability to pay him close attention) Emma’s hand appeared between him and the seat, rubbing soft circles into his skin.

 

Neal let out an exaggerated grown, briefly laying his head against the steering wheel.

 

“Don’t crash,” Emma said dryly.

 

“Why not? We’re already here,” and Neal let the car waver just a bit. The traffic was thinning. It was fine. Still, Emma smacked him mighty hard.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Yeah, that’s exactly how I want to start our married life together: with a car crash.”

 

“Would be sorta romantic, coming full circle and all.”

 

To his surprise—but certainly not displeasure—Emma blushed, turning to stare out the window. It would be sort of fitting, odd as it sounded. Neal had been a pissy young man, still getting used to his papa trying to be a papa, angry at the word for no real reason…though mostly at the fact that he wasn’t allowed to get a car yet. Emma, just a few years his junior, had been equally pissy, finding her ‘perfect parents’ stifling and embracing her Bad Girl phase with everything she had. They’d ended up trying to steal the same car and arguing about who got to keep it for fifteen damn minutes.

                                                                                                                            

Which would have been fine, if they hadn’t been arguing while Emma was trying to drive. Turning to scream at him in the back she’d crashed the little Volkswagen Beetle with the chipping yellow paint. Neither had been hurt, but the police had been called. As had their parents. It was only when Neal had been scowling under his Papa’s glare—and Emma, he presumed, under Mary Margaret’s and David’s—that he realized they could have just stolen the damn car together. Imagine that.

 

Might have messed that attempt up, but the rest of their lives hadn’t been too bad. No more stolen cars (they’d had other things to explore then, far more interesting) and they’d moved through all the stages of a cheesy, Hollywood romance: unexpected friends, tentative sweethearts, inseparable lovers. The only way they’d deviated was in holding off the marriage. Neal wanted them both to be settled before they thought about permanence. A family.

 

Now they were.

 

“Here,” he said, finding a solitary parking spot a stone’s throw from the boardwalk. Neal laughed, stretching hands above his head and trying to flex the cramp out of his thigh. From the corner of his eye he saw Emma yawning into one hand and rubbing her neck with the other.

 

“Finally,” she agreed. “C’mon. Let’s stretch our legs.”

 

They did just that, taking their time passing all the cheap tourist establishments and gawking at the merchandise, Neal asking over and over which of the flimsy, useless items Emma wanted for a wedding gift. She did make him buy a small, yellow water pistol—same yellow as that car—and periodically squired him during the rest of their walk.

 

“Quit it!” Neal laughed, feeling the back of his t-shirt drench. Again.

 

Emma hefted the gun like some James Bond-type. “Nah,” she said and hit him square in the ear.

 

“Didn’t realize those things had such good aim.”

 

“Was trying to hit your neck, actually...”

 

Neal shook his head, grabbing Emma’s hand and pulling her up back beside him. A couple of people were staring and chuckling at their antics. He threw his arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss into her hair. “I love you,” he murmured.

 

“I’m starving.”

 

“What a romantic.”

 

But Emma was already jogging ahead, that familiar sign now coming into view. It wasn’t often that she got down to North Carolina to see her parents and this visit, obviously, was a rather special occasion.

 

“Love this part,” Emma admitted. She pressed her face to the glass, eyes darting at all the different pictures. “They’ve always got new stuff in. Ha! Dad still hasn’t sold that damn knight painting!”

 

“But I will!” came a call and they both jumped, David climbing one of the many stairs up from the beach. He looked exactly as Neal remembered him from their last visit: casual clothes, tanned skin, handsome features and a sharp intelligence in his eyes that made him a rather intimidating father-in-law. Soon to be father-in-law. They might have waited for their own sakes, but David certainly hadn’t allowed them to rush into marriage.

 

Still, it was with open arms that he welcomed his daughter.

 

Neal laughed, watching Emma become a little kid again, enjoying the moment of David actually lifting her into his arms, twirling her Hollywood style. He thought about fishing out his phone and trying to capture the moment... but by then it was over.

 

“Neal,” David said, extending his hand. Neal took it, but he was pulled into a hug of his own, the two men thumping each other on the back. “I wasn’t expecting to see you two until tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah. Figured we’d wander a bit. Emma just happened to lead us here.”

 

“‘Course she did,” David said, fondness coloring his voice. Emma just shrugged, a bit of pink in her cheeks as she bumped their shoulders companionably.

 

“Where’s Mom then?”

 

David snorted. “You know her uncanny ability to make friends?”

 

“Oh no,” Neal grinned. David just pointed to the shop next door.

 

Last they’d visited that place had been a hotdog and hamburger joint, theoretically perfect for the boardwalk. Only problem was the owners, two brothers if memory served, had been certifiable POSs, a real counterbalance to the Nolans’ kind natures. They bitched about the young demographics, the tourists—basically everyone who kept their business afloat. Neal didn’t know all the details, but Mary Margaret had said something about them visiting the shop once with greasy fingers and ruining a fine piece. There was no coming back from that, far as they were concerned.

 

Luckily the place fell apart due to health violations. Now there was this.

 

“Taffy Tomes,” Neal read. “What an odd name.” It was, though also rather whimsical, perfect for the turquoise paint that had been added and the faded, old book attached to the sign. He peered in from the distance, noticing that the order counter was still there, though much of the seating had been replaced by shelves, presumably to house the merchandise. There were boxes stacked in the entryway to the kitchen and a few remaining tables pushed to the front. It was in one of these that Neal finally noticed Mary Margaret.

 

He smiled. She was slung backwards over a chair while her companion sat across from her, one knee up and pressed against the table. Both of them made a pretty picture, a happy one too. Neal didn’t know the other woman, but the two of them were gabbing like the very best of friends.

 

“Let’s say hello.”

 

***

 

Rum felt like he needed some of his name. That was, alcohol: something crisp with a good burn on the way down. Anything that would help wallow away the hours.

 

There wasn’t anything in the kitchen—that would have been a miracle—and he wasn’t so desperate to have tried bringing that on the plane. Of course, he could go out to get something... but the idea of braving the crowds and the heat was too much right now. Rum was fine (if not content) with waiting out the rest of the afternoon with his book and this armchair. The spot afforded him a view of the balcony. Oddly enough, he spent more time staring out at that than reading his book.

 

He wondered where that woman had gone off to.

 

A quick buzz of his cell startled Rum, Neal’s number one again prominently displayed. He snapped it up, not caring how desperate the action made him look. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to see.

 

One brief conversation later and Rum was smoothing down the sleeves of his shirt, slipping on his shoes. Neal and Emma had ended up at the Nolans’ shop (little surprise there) and they were thinking he might as well come down now, join them for drinks before an early dinner. Meet you there? Of course, son. I’ll be there soon.

 

It was just a second before Rum hung up that Neal cleared his throat, throwing in that, just by the way, Mary Margaret made a new friend too and she’s sort of our friend now too, and can she join? All of it came out in a rush that reminded Rum of Neal’s childhood, asking for sweets or toys in a quick voice, like he expected to lesson the blow with speed. Didn’t work then, didn’t work now either.

 

The idea of spending the night with anyone other than immediate family sent Rum’s stomach churning, but what was there to say? No, Neal, you can’t enjoy your time her, the time before your wedding, because your papa is a crotchety, anti-social old man?

 

Absolutely not. Besides, Rum didn’t want Neal to be like him.

 

So he threw out “of course” a few more times and swallowed down the lump in his throat. Rum focused on the joy in Neal’s voice and, sparing one last glance at the balcony, made his way out the door.

 

Maybe he’d spent some time out there, after the night was over.


	6. Chapter 6

Belle couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun. Oh, she’d made friends in the city, Ruby chief among them, but one of the reasons she’d wanted to make the move in the first place was to find someplace smaller. North Carolina would be chaotic every summer, as it was now, but Belle knew that things would calm down in the winter, allowing her to become truly acquainted with a smaller set of locals. Much better than a bustling metropolis. Belle was thrilled that she was starting so soon.

 

“I don’t know a thing,” she said, laughing. Then Belle waved her hands to let them know she was exaggerating. “I’m joking. It’s just... my degree isn’t in cooking or baking or anything. I don’t have professional culinary experience. But mom ran a side business with taffy, handing them off to the mom n’ pop shop down the street, you know? Learned everything from her. Promised I’d keep up the work when she was gone... but she always knew I loved books more. It was a side hobby anyway... it was only in the last few years that I felt the need to make that hobby a little... well, _more_. Than a hobby.” Belle trailed off awkwardly, feeling like she’d said too much.

 

Mary Margaret was smiling sweetly though. Her daughter Emma too. David and Neal were off exploring the back of her store, but Belle had caught them turning their heads towards the conversation once or twice. She supposed it was a slightly interesting story. Odd at least.

 

“That’s really nice, actually,” Emma said. She leaned back and tossed another mint into her mouth—her third. Said she was hungry and Belle giggled every time.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“But how the hell did you pay for it all?”

 

“Emma!” Mary Margaret gave her daughter a firm slap on the arm. Emma didn’t even blink, clearly used to it.

 

“What? It’s an honest question. Not everyone is so uptight about money as you are, Mom.”

 

Belle rushed in as Mary Margaret’s cheeks started staining an embarrassed red. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that a couple trying to sell higher-end paintings to groups of beach-goers might feel a strain on their wallets just a bit. Belle got it. She’d been there herself more than once.

 

“It is honest,” she agreed, smiling at Emma. “And you’ll get an honest answer: It’s not my money. The store is mine,” Belle ran a hand over the table lovingly. “As is the apartment above it, but that came mostly from my father’s savings, as well as what I’d pulled together in the last year or so.” Belle paused, anticipating their next question. “No, I’m not living here yet. My stuff will be arriving soon, but for now I’m in one of the beachfront houses.” She paused again, almost guiltily. “That vacation was a gift from my co-workers. You know, ‘spend some time just being _you’_ and all that, before going off to start a new a new life.”

 

Far from looking jealous or, worse, angry, Emma and Mary Margret both split into grins, Emma going to far as to give her a thumbs up.

 

“Sounds like you had good friends back there,” she said.

 

Belle smiled. “I did.”

 

“What’s this I hear about you in a beachfront?” Neal wandered over with David at his heels. Belle had known them only a few minutes, but she already liked both men, far more so than the likes of Gaston or Dr. Whale. Her friends and co-workers may have been stellar, but the men around Belle’s old library and apartment complex had left a lot to be desired.

 

Granny had actually said she’d dreamed of Belle finding love in North Carolina. She’d thrown the words out as Belle was boarding the plane and she’d just shook her head because really, what kind of silliness was that?

 

...not the worst fantasy though.

 

Belle made a sound of apology, realizing she’d made Neal wait too long. “Yeah, I’ve got one for two weeks. Frankly I don’t know how they all pooled the funds...”

 

“Which house then?” Neal pulled up a chair, grabbing one for David as well. “Don’t tell me it’s a lil’ pastel place with a sea-shell driveway.” Neal leaned across the table to poke Emma in the arm. “If it is we’re all gonna be out of a house!”

 

“Well you won’t be staying here,” David whispered, earning laughs all around.

 

Except from Belle though. She was staring at Neal, wondering if things ever actually worked out that simply.

 

“Actually,” she said. “If I’ve got my geography right, I think I’m in the house next door.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Neal’s face positively lit up. Emma pumped her arm in victory, directing a pointed gaze at Mary Margaret.

 

“See? Look at me making friends.”

 

“Oh, Emma.”

 

“You should come to the wedding then,” David said, right before he stuttered and raised both hands apologetically to Neal and Emma. “Not that I’m inviting people without your say-so.”

 

But Emma and Neal had already exchanged a significant glance, the kind of non-verbal communication that only came from years of companionship.

 

“Of course you should come!” Neal said at the same time Emma added, “No shit.”

 

Which was how Belle was left, sitting in her new store, in a new state, with new friends who’d just invited her to more fun than she’d expected to find in a month. To say nothing of the sentimentality. Despite their approachable natures, Belle didn’t think this family would invite just anyone to such an important event, not if the way they doted on the couple was anything to go by. Her inclusion made something warm rise up in Belle’s chest and it stained her cheeks a pretty pink.

 

That was the image Rum saw.

 

He slipped into the door that didn’t have a bell yet, otherwise they might have had some warning of his arrival. As it was, Rum was quick and quiet. He froze. He stopped breathing. He took in the unexpected scene with the air of a condemned man. The woman seated so comfortably with his family wasn’t just gorgeous... she was the same woman who’d spoken to him on the balcony.

 

Rum pointed, eyes wide, voice raw. “ _She’s_ coming to the wedding?”


	7. Chapter 7

His son was a traitorous bastard.

 

Normally Rum wouldn’t even entertain such awful thoughts, not about Neal, but his imp of a child deserved it in this case. He wasn’t sure how yet, but there would indeed be retribution.

 

“Fry?” she said and Rum stared. Somehow that didn’t deter her because she continued with, “They’re... they’re parmesan and truffle oil...really good…”

 

He closed his eyes.

 

Rum had been more than a little surprised when just a minute after leaving the house Neal had texted him, something his son rarely did, knowing Rum’s disgust of the abbreviations and so-called ‘text speak.’ At least he had the decently to always write in complete, grammatically correct sentences, but it was still rather unexpected. All the brief message had said was that they were meeting up in the shop next to David and Mary Margaret’s place.

 

That had been the real surprise, and considering that the place to the right was a pool supplies store… Neal must have meant the new taffy place.

 

The last thing Rum had expected was to see _her_ cuddling up to his family.

 

She was pretty, sure, but what had truly caught his eye was how at ease they all looked, especially Emma. If there was anyone in this world that Rum had bothered to get to know besides his son, it was the woman who’d be spending the rest of her life with him. Emma, like him, had a tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and if she could chat so freely with a woman after just an hour or so... well, what kind of woman was she exactly?

 

“They really are good,” she insisted, and Rum startled as she grabbed one of the french fries, leaning across him to get it. Her pale wrist brushed against the sleeve of his suit—the coat hiding the wrinkles from earlier, a silly detail he was now oddly ashamed of—and Rum’s first thought was not to pull away, but merely that she was too white to have been here long. She didn’t have the tan that everyone else here seemed to sport. She was a new arrival.

 

Like him.

 

Not that such a simple, insignificant connection was enough to warrant this. No sooner had Rum entered the shop than Neal was all over him, grinning, saying that this was Belle, Papa (something he already knew), she’s here thanks to the generosity of her friends and co-workers (well, perhaps he’d been a bit hasty in his assumptions of her), yes she’s _absolutely_ coming to the wedding isn’t she _nice_ , Papa?

 

Rum wasn’t born yesterday and Neal wasn’t subtle. He’d been very accepting of his and Milah’s falling out, once he was old enough to understand the complexities of any relationship... but Neal was also gifted to have found a true soulmate and he was sometimes overly zealous in his search for Rum’s. If such a thing even existed. Regardless of his own doubts, Neal had happily maneuvered until they had a ‘couples’ night: him with Emma, Mary Margaret with David... and Rum was left sitting next to Belle at the bar.

 

She stuffed the fry into her mouth, staring. “Food really isn’t the way to your heart is it?” she said, totally deadpanned.

 

“Not unless you can make a decent croissant,” he shot back and Rum stilled, not knowing where that had come from. Oh, he was certainly skilled in comebacks, verbal attacks and the like, but that was against clients, anyone he wanted to coax into a deal. It wasn’t like him to spring it on beautiful strangers.

 

...wait. When had ‘pretty’ become ‘beautiful’?

 

Belle just laughed though, loud enough that she might have drawn attention if the bar hadn’t already been so loud. As it was, on their left David peeked over as Belle’s head tilted back. He had a smug look on his face that Rum wasn’t sure he appreciated.

 

“I can make croissants,” she said, surprising him, “though whether or not they’re ‘decent’ is another question entirely.” Belle took a moment to sip at her drink, a bright cosmo that fit her bubbly nature.

 

“I’ll admit I have no right to be too much of a snob,” Rum said, relaxing just a bit. “I believe the most I’ve ever ‘cooked’ is one of those horrid pot noodles. The ones for the microwave? It wasn’t the highest point of my life, I’ll admit.”

 

Belle smiled dryly. “I know the kind. Let me guess: college? Right after college?”

 

“Divorce, actually.”

 

“...Oh.”

 

He could have kicked himself. This always happened. Whether it was from refusing to say nothing or suddenly spilling his life inappropriately, Rum always managed to make a mess of conversations. Whatever playful camaraderie they were building--if he could be so bold as to call it that—evaporated in an instant.

 

Rum looked down at his gin and tonic, tipping the glass awkwardly. The bar was loud, and the onslaught of happy, talking, tipsy people just made him feel all the more out of place. They’d opted for a compromise between drinks and dinner, this awful seating arrangement of a square counter surrounding the bar, and Rum tried desperately to catch the eye of the server in the middle. Not because he needed another drink (though it sort of felt like he did), but merely because he needed something to do rather than sit here and sweat.

 

He kept waiting for Belle to stand. Make some polite comment about how it was lovely to meet him, but she should really go see how Mary Margaret was doing. Not that there were any open seats. Not that this logic helped alleviate Rum’s assurance of what Belle would do.

 

She’d be gone in a moment.

 

“My father was a con artist.”

 

Rum’s head whipped around, staring at her. Belle simply shrugged, though with what appeared to be a forcibly indifferent expression.

 

“He wasn’t very good at it, I’ll admit,” she said. “He dabbled in a lot of things before settling on opening a flower shop. Got a friend to loan him the money, which he never paid back. Spent his days buying knock-offs or what were essentially common garden weeds and pawning them off on gullible customers, claiming they were ‘rare’ and ‘delicate’ and ‘not his fault if it died within the week.’” Belle finally grimaced. “When he died of a stroke I inherited a fair bit of cash. None of it was rightfully mine though...” she trailed off.

 

Rum carefully smoothed his tie. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I don’t know... make you more comfortable? Now we’ve both shared personal things... though really I just sort of...wanted to.”

 

“I see.”

 

The silence between them stretched, though this time Rum didn’t feel quite as worried about it. To his astonishment he enjoyed simply sitting near Belle, admiring her previous words, as well as the soft light that hit her hair. The bar’s candles cast prisms along her locks and their repetitive nature was soothing. Hexagons and pentagons. Logic. Order.

 

“I wanted to do something better with it,” Belle said, making Rum jump. “Sorry!” she laughed. “The money I mean. It’s partly why I came here. Use those savings to give back a little bit. Taffy may not be much, but...” Belle cast him a sheepish smile. “It’s what I have to offer.”

 

“Sometimes small offerings are more the most beloved,” Rum murmured, remembering how the tiny, homemade gifts from Neal had always meant more to him than whatever expensive trinket Milah had gotten him. Or rather what she’d wanted _him_ to get _her_.

 

He hesitated, feeling like it was his turn to admit something. What came out was, “I’ve never tried taffy.”

 

To his shock Belle immediately grinned, pushed their fries aside, dropped beneath the counter—causing Rum no small heart attack—and came back up with her purse. Two seconds later she was laying samples out before him, some sporting swirls or designs that made them look like tiny fruits, all of them were brightly colored.

 

“I made up some samples before leaving,” she said, nearly giddy. “Just a few ideas I’ve been tossing around. Book related flavors. You know, stuff for the shop. That I’m opening...” Belle coughed and blushed, her babbling drawing a smile to Rum’s face that he didn’t even realize was there. A good thing too. If he had he might have let it go.

 

Belle recovered and started pointing to each. “Apple Pie from _On the Road_ , Candy Corn for _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ , Blueberry—you remember that scene from _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_?—Peppermint for _Pride and Prejudice_... I don’t actually have a good connection for that one, I just associate the Darcys with peppermint for some reason. They’re ‘cool-headed’ and the story was so ‘refreshing’ for its time and, okay, admittedly I’m reaching with a few of these...”

 

Rum leaned forward, hesitantly. When Belle gave him a nod of assent he picked up a dark purple piece, neatly wrapped in plastic paper. He held it up, eyebrows raised.

 

“Grape,” Belle said, grinning. “ _Grapes of Wrath_.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

He hadn’t actually read the book, hadn’t read much fiction at all since coming out of school, but Rum suddenly didn’t want Belle to know that. He felt, stupidly, that he needed to eat this with a certain air of familiarity in order to not simply make himself look the fool, but actually impress her.

 

... _why_ he wanted to impress her was a conundrum for another night. One not quite so soft or getting so quiet, the bar slowly but methodically clearing out.

 

Seeking her permission once more, Rum deftly unwrapped the sweet and popped it into his mouth. He needn’t have worried about his expression. Pure bliss washed over his face. Rum closed his eyes.

 

Within the darkness he heard Belle chuckle. “I think you like soft water taffy.”

 

“I believe I do too.”

 

“Hey... you want to go somewhere else? Night is still young and all that.”

 

Rum opened his eyes, a comment about the rest of their group perhaps not being done yet, but he quickly saw with a jolt that that David, Mary Margaret, Emma, and even Neal had vanished.

 

The bartender came up, wiping his hands. “This was left for you two,” he said and slipped a piece of paper between Rum and Belle. Rum could just see Neal’s handwriting peeking out from the flap.

 

Manipulative bastard. Despite himself, Rum smiled again.


	8. Chapter 8

North Carolina at night was something else entirely. Belle stepped out of the bar, admiring all the business lights that somehow seemed softer than those she’d found in the city. It must have rained briefly because the pier beneath her heels was a dark, chocolate brown, another color Belle mentally stored away to try and repeat in her taffy.

 

She’d been beyond thrilled that Rum had seemed to like the grape at least, more thrilled than Belle was expecting to be. He’d appeared so... _regal_ when he’d stepped through the door and what had wanted to slam out of Belle’s mouth was an immature, “Neal, you never mentioned your dad was _hot_.” Luckily she’d kept her gob shut for once.

 

That initial attraction had, admittedly, been briefly tempered by his, “ _She’s_ coming to the wedding?” with all the emphasis and shock poured into ‘she.’ It didn’t take Belle more than ten minutes though to realize that what she initially read as superiority (which he may have still had a touch of) was in fact nerves more than anything else: the way Rum immediately set himself apart from the group, sticking close to Neal; constantly playing with his cufflinks, a nervous habit; the fact that after somewhat insulting her he clearly didn’t know that else to say. He wasn’t Romeo by any means, but Granny’s words about finding love might have nestled within Belle—much to her chagrin—and Rum seemed softer than he initially appeared. Was it so wrong to hope?

 

When Neal had non-too subtly steered her towards the empty seat beside Rum, Belle had been happier to oblige than she would have believed.

 

She looked back. He was still loitering by the bar entrance, keeping his cane as a firm barrier between him and the passing patrons. Belle grinned as she saw him frowning down at his phone.

 

“I don’t think they’re coming back,” she called, making him jump. Belle laughed outright at his expression. “Unless that note was written in code?”

 

It had been a simple (and totally untruthful): ‘we’re-very-tired-heading-back-but-enjoy-your-night-bye!’ kind of note. Belle wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Neal was cuddled up by Emma in another bar somewhere, occasionally sneaking glances at Rum’s frantic messages, making sure it wasn’t a true emergency...and then laughing. Kind of mean, but the teasing nature of their relationship just reassured Belle even more.

 

“C’mon,” she called. “It’s the perfect night for a walk on the beach, don’t you think?”

 

Belle didn’t wait for Rum’s answer, certainly didn’t wait to see if he’d follow. She had the distinct impression that looking back would scare him off. Belle would lose this possibility, like Orpheus losing his Eurydice... Belle shook her head at her own, dramatic comparison. She hopped down the boardwalk steps.

 

Belle wobbled horrible when she hit the sand, slipping off her heels as quickly as she could. She stuffed them halfway into her purse and took off running, not stopping until her toes were just an inch or so from the surf. It struck Belle, suddenly, wonderfully, that she was actually at the _beach_. She had vague, fuzzy memories of vacation back when her mother was still alive, but she hadn’t come back since. Belle felt, ridiculously, that letting the waves touch her would be the _true_ start of something new.

 

Instead, Belle looked back.

 

It appeared as if Rum had been in the process of getting his own shoes off, lining them up as straight as he could, attempting to strip his socks off without falling into the sand. The only thing was that he seemed to have stopped halfway through, staring at her.

 

At first Belle thought no, that’s impossible, he was looking at something _behind_ her, in the ocean (all those horror movie marathons getting the best of her), but then Belle took stock of her own physicality: bare feet, bare legs, both covered in sand; her skirt kicking up with the wind; green panties peeking out; hair disheveled; expression bright as the stars. Belle felt self-conscious under his gaze, but she took a chance and waved him over.

 

It was a new feeling indeed, rising up within her as Rum walked her way.

 

He was fully barefoot now and as he approached he draped his jacket over his arm and rolled his sleeves, the movements jerky like he didn’t normally do this. When Rum reached her, Belle was hyper-aware of the curves of his arms. How he navigated the sand even with his cane—an unexpected grace to him that stole a bit of her breath. Rum settled in beside her and Belle took a chance, her hand ghosting up to rest on his forearm. Rum didn’t pull away.

 

“Tell me something,” she said quietly, almost begging. “Not... not small talk. Something _important_. To you.”

 

The silence stretched so long, long enough that Belle began to realize that it wasn’t silence at all. The call of late night seagulls, the wind, the waves, voices far off in the distance, growing steadily louder. The noise began to overtake her, evidence that Rum thought the question insulting, strange... until suddenly his voice joined the fray.

 

“This is for Neal,” he said. “My son,” and he fished a necklace from his jacket pocket, holding it up for Belle to see. It was beautiful in its simplicity, a silver chain with a small hourglass on the end. Belle watched it spin in his hand, the metal reflecting light in the water.

 

“I bought it for Milah when I proposed. I had the ring too, I just wanted something... _more_ for her. Something regarding eternity, if I’m honest.” Rum sneered the last words, flipping the hourglass so that the chain tangled. “Obviously I couldn’t have been more wrong. I should have thrown this out years ago... but one thing led to another...” Rum sighed. “Neal asked quite forcibly for something of his mother’s to give to Belle. I believe this proves beyond a doubt that I can deny that boy nothing.”

 

“I think it’s sweet,” Belle whispered. She tentatively reached out to touch the hourglass as well. “I also don’t doubt this will play out better for them than it did for you and Milah.” She hesitated. “I look forward to seeing him place it around her neck during the wedding.”

 

It was a gamble, a not exactly subtle request for permission. Belle liked her new friends. She liked Rum. Already she had more to be grateful for, in just a handful of hours, than she’d expected to find in weeks here. Yet if Rum truly didn’t want a stranger (and she _was_ still a stranger, despite hope for the future) at this wedding then Belle would obviously step aside.

 

To her pleasant surprise though, Rum merely tucked the necklace safely back in his pocket. “I look forward to seeing it with you,” he murmured. Then continued: “And you?”

 

Belle blinked. “Me?”

 

“Will you... will you tell me something important?”

 

“I will,” she said, smiling bright as the sun. “Truth? I’m thinking of creating a new kind of taffy for the opening. Rum flavored. I hope you’ll help me get the taste just right?”

 

It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Belle would have sworn that Rum blushed.

 

“Perhaps you can serve some at the wedding.”

 

The waves washed over their feet.

 

***

 

Perhaps sooner than Belle would have preferred they were heading back, the voices in the distance having turned into a full-blown uproar. A party even. Rum actually appeared offended until Belle pulled him away, finding their shoes and explaining her friendly cabdriver from that morning. Belle couldn’t swear to it, but she had the distinct feeling that this was Will and his entourage.

 

Back across the beach. Up the steps. Over the short stretch of boardwalk. Across the sea-shell driveway. When they came to their houses side-by-side there wasn’t any of the awkward ‘what now?’ moments because each knew exactly what they would do.

 

Belle was across the kitchen while Rum was still placing his shoes in the hallway. She stopped for a glass of water as he made his way upstairs. He loosened his tie. She removed his jewelry. As one they stepped out onto the balcony, meeting once more.

 

The ocean... it seemed filled with even more possibility from up here.

 

Belle only had the house for two weeks. Rum only had the wedding as an excuse to stay. Still… she’d move into the apartment above the shop and maybe he’d decide he needed a bit more vacation. There would be wedding plans, lunches, shopping, dragging Rum into the surf, taste testing taffy, maybe even a kiss, something beginning even as time began to run short. A lot could happen in two weeks. More than either of them alone could imagine.

 

For now though, Belle reached her hand across the gap and Rum slide his fingers though hers.

 

This. This here was a start.

 

_Fin._

 

 


End file.
